Worth a Thousand
by OrangePlum
Summary: Alfred can't speak, but does his best to keep his asthmatic brother away from unhealthy air. Arthur can't cut his cigarette addiction, nor does he want to. It really is unfortunate they are neighbors in the same building, isn't it?


**Author's Notes:** Part 1 of 2.

* * *

I have a pet peeve with smoking.

In general I consider myself a pretty easygoing person. I can tolerate a lot of things. You wanna spit when you walk down a street? Go for it. You wanna drink yourself into oblivion and pass out on my welcome mat? Swell. You wanna eat your Cheerios one at a time while watching Tyra Banks at four in the afternoon? More power to you! But as tolerating as I am, I can't get behind smoking. _No bueno_, hombre.

My family knows this. My friends know this. Heck, even my mailman know this. The only person on this huge planet who doesn't seem to know this lives directly across the hall. So when I open the door to head to class one morning and he's just standing there with a cigarette hanging from his lips and sorting through some envelopes, I can't help but frown when the smell hits my nose.

Enough is enough, I say!

I lock the door with a quick jerk of my wrist and frown at him. The guy doesn't even bother looking up like most people would. How he's gotten away with smoking in an apartment complex hallway is beyond me. But it's been one time too many in my opinion.

It's only when I've been standing in front of him for thirty seconds that the blonde finally acknowledges me. I hesitate when I see that he has an air of perpetual bitterness soaked into his features from most likely a lifetime of scowling. Pricks of stubble outline his jaw and there are purple smears under his eyes. I briefly wonder the kind of life he leads before I brush it off. I don't care.

I point to his cigarette and raise my eyebrows. My neighbor stares at me, his eyes slowly trailing down to look at my finger.

"What are you staring at, kid?" he asks, sounding bored and irritated. I snort. I should be the one irritated, not _him_. Mattie has asthma and he doesn't need this cancer junkie clogging up the air outside of our home. I jut my finger more vigorously at his cigarette and purse my lips.

My neighbor's lip curls, the smoke from his stogie dancing like some seductive sway from a belly dancer. You know, if a belly dancer's dance could kill a person and smelled like a butt crack.

"Get your hand out of my face. Didn't your mum ever teach you manners?"

I retract my hand and clench my fists, waving my arms wide and blowing out a long, dramatic exhale. One of his massive eyebrows moves up his forehead. I rub my hands quickly over my face before miming taking a breath from a cigarette. He finally understands and removes the stick from his mouth, eyeing me suspiciously.

"What? This?" I nod emphatically. "What about it?"

I make an X with my arms, shaking my head. My neighbor stares at me, glancing briefly at the cig in between his fingers. I wait a moment, hoping he'll get the hint soon because I'm going to be late for school at this rate. I notice the print on one of the envelopes in his hand. It says Arthur. He moves the papers and I look up.

"Look, I've had a terrible time this weekend. I think I'm free to enjoy one fag," Arthur tells me, his voice rough around the edges, like the voice of a person who stays up all night and pops pills and smokes cigarettes. I shake my head and make an X again. He puts the stick back into his mouth and shrugs, sorting through the envelopes again. "Run along, lad, before you're late for study hall."

I gawk for a minute, my fingers gripping my backpack strap tightly when he continues to ignore me. _Whose_ mom never taught whom manners?

In one abrupt gesture I snatch the cigarette from his lips, throw it to the ground, and stamp on it until the amber stub is dead. Arthur's mouth hangs open in surprise. I extend my chin up and point warningly in his face before storming down the hallway to the school bus.

Serves him right.

* * *

It's a week later when I bump into Arthur again. I'm taking out the trash when I glance up and see him. Him. _Smoking_.

I grit my teeth.

Arthur notices me when I'm halfway across the parking lot, gingerly removing the cancer stick from his mouth and blowing a puff of gray from his body. Recognition eases into his eyes and he waves. I shake my head and point to his cigarette. Arthur scoffs.

"Evening, chap. Please don't tell me you've come to give my wrist a good slapping again." Under the exasperation in his tone lies sarcasm and amusement. Well, fuck you, too. I point to his cigarette a little harder. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Do give it a rest. It's just an occasional habit."

I peer down at the pile of cigarette carcasses littered around his shoes. I see the cigarette packages on the dumpster. He smells like he jumped into a volcano and decided to make a home there. I cross my arms as best I can with a handful of trash bag. Arthur notices my skepticism and grins at me.

"Piss off."

I scoff, rolling my eyes as well and stepping around him to open the dumpster lid. I feel Arthur's eyes watching me when I dispose of the garbage, wiping my hands against my jeans. When I turn around Arthur takes another leisure drag. He looks more haggard in the diminishing light of the growing evening. It makes me wonder how old he is. I make a note to call him Methuselah sometime to tick him off.

Arthur says nothing as I fish a small notepad from my pocket, scribbling a few things before tearing the paper off and thrusting it at him. He takes it without a word and reads.

_Dude, put that shit out. It's disgusting._

"There are far worse things to get into, boy," Arthur says with a frown. I vaguely note him pocketing my message. I scribble another.

_Yeah, but smoking is still gross. My brother has breathing problems. I'd appreciate if you stopped._

Arthur pockets this note, too. He shrugs and I feel a spark of frustration inside me. "What's wrong with him?"

Scribble.

_Asthma. What's it matter?_

"Nothing in particular. Just an idle curiosity."

I hand him another note, smiling hopefully. _So you'll stop?_

Arthur exhales and runs his fingers through his hair, leaning against the concrete wall behind him. "No. I don't really see the harm."

Well, this was just an effort in futility, wasn't it? I place my hand on my hip, hoping he can sense my displeasure at this. Arthur runs his thumb over the side of his cigarette and gives me a sidelong glance. He offers me the box. "Would you like one?"

I shake my head.

"Have you ever tried it?" he asks. I shake my head again, making him smirk. "How can you know you won't like it if you don't try it?"

I make my outlook as simple as possible by pointing at him and pinching my nose. Arthur blows a puff of air from his nostrils, either in glee or annoyance. It's really hard to read him when he only seems to have one default expression.

"I can't smell as bad as a garbage bin." His eyes shine when I point to my tongue with a gag. He smiles at me, the skin around his eyes pulling tight and wrinkling. "I hardly think I taste that bad either." I tense and frown, a slow heat jolting in my abdomen. He reads my reaction easily. "Oh, I'm only teasing you. Please don't take it personally."

I idly toe the stubs at my feet and stare expectantly at him. He looks at me carefully before I rub my fingers together with my thumb.

"Is it expensive? Yes, I can't say my habit is cheap to maintain, but it's worth it after so many years of using it as a crutch. I'm far too deep to just up and quit."

I pick up my pen again and jot something down. He reads it.

_You owe me a dollar every time I catch you doing this._

He appears perplexed before letting out a lone chuckle of disbelief. "At this rate I'll be on the street," he says. I smile and nod before pivoting on my feet and heading back towards the complex. Arthur doesn't follow me, but when I head off to school the next morning there isn't a cigarette butt in sight.

* * *

When you live in a small apartment like mine, privacy sort of is a luxury. A luxury my mom usually likes to take advantage of.

I sigh and place my headphones over my ears, continuously bouncing and catching the tennis ball of our old dog Rusty against the adjourning wall. It looks like crusty pea soup. I trace the cracks and pieces of chipped paint as I wait for 6 o' clock – when Matt gets home from his book club thing.

I've been banished to the hallway while my mom has her boyfriend over. I don't want to think about what's going on behind the wall I'm leaning against, but I already know. I grimace just considering it and turn up my music.

The ball bounces a little too hard and ricochets off of my sneaker, bounding down the hall three doors away. I'm too lazy to get up.

Halfway through the song playing and me wondering when my mom will finish her rendezvous, the door to my right opens; room 307. I watch through the hem of my bangs as Arthur emerges, collar popped on his beige button-down. It's half tucked into his pants and he smells like ash and booze.

He must notice me crinkling my nose at him because his lips are moving. I remove my headphones and shoot him my best puzzled expression.

"I said stop that bloody thumping. It's giving me a headache."

I snicker and Arthur looks perturbed. Yeah, _that's_ why he's got a headache. I'm sure.

When a low moan cuts through the dull, steady thumps behind me, I frown and Arthur's eyes dart to my door. I guess it wasn't the ball he was hearing after all. It slowly dawns on him and he cringes, balking at me.

"Are you serious?"

I nod.

"Delightful. I don't suppose you could get that distracting noise to stop," Arthur requests, fingers roughly carding through his messy hair. When he looks at me I think I look a good blend of horrified and nauseated. His eyebrows come together. "I thought so."

I move to put my headphones back on when Arthur pauses in his doorway. My stomach squirms uncomfortably when the pounding sound starts speeding up.

"Come here," Arthur orders, hovering over me. I blink up at him. His continues, explaining himself for me. "You can't tell me you want to sit here and listen to," muffled cries make their way through my wall, "_that_."

I peer around Arthur into his dimly lit apartment, carefully considering his offer. It's pretty sketchy, and my neighbor really appears to be a sad excuse for an adult, but in my utter boredom and desperate urge to extricate myself from the noises of my mother's loud tryst, I stand up and follow after him.

Surprisingly his apartment is clean. Aside from a desk by his kitchen covered in papers. I immediately notice the stale smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, attached to the furniture and plaster coating the walls. His television is on mute to some Jerry Springer trash. I give him props.

"I clearly don't entertain, especially not to children. Make yourself comfortable, I suppose," Arthur mutters, beelining for the kitchen and grabbing a half filled glass of what looks like whiskey. That's what it smells like mixed with the smoke, anyway. After a few gulps Arthur notices me staring at him with a cheeky smile.

"What the devil are you looking at?" I rock back on my heels. "What? The sun's practically down. Nothing wrong with a drink or two," he states defensively.

I unpocket my notepad and scrawl something down, passing it to him.

_Yeah, sure. But when did you start?_

Arthur crumples the paper, smirking into the rim of his glass. "You know the saying, lad. It's 5 o' clock somewhere now, isn't it?"

I concede and move to sit at the table, fingers playing with a pepper shaker in the shape of a chicken. Arthur's house doesn't look like I'd imagined it would. Then again, I wasn't entirely sure what kind of dude Arthur really was. I watch as he meanders past me and sits at his desk, still nursing his drink. A chain smoker and a drunk, no doubt, but that doesn't necessarily make a person who they are.

Arthur looks up when I slide a piece of paper in his direction. He leans over to look at it with lowered eyelids.

_What's with all the papers, bro?_

"It's for my job," he explains. He notices my eyebrows raising, prompting him to continue. "I do accounting. And a class or two at the community college downtown. I don't have a proper organization system as of yet," he admits with a gulp of whiskey. His wrist brushes aside the flooded ashtray beside him. A cigarette butt falls to the floor.

Another note.

_You're in college? How old ARE you?_

Arthur turns his attention to his computer screen, the teal light emphasizing the crevices on his face. "Don't be offensive. I'm only a handful of years older than you are, I'd wager."

I laugh and let my head fall back, shoulders shaking with this information. Holy cow, I wouldn't have guessed that. He must live a colorful life. Arthur glances over at me curiously when he hears the breathy wheezes coming from my throat. His eyes linger as I continue to grin at him, stifling the airy chuckles.

"What about you? I hardly know why you don't say a single word to me, let alone your name."

I run my tongue over my teeth and sign at him. Arthur doesn't hide the annoyance on his face this time. I laugh again and slide him a new piece of paper.

_Alfred._

"Alright. Judging your sign language fluidity, you've been silent for a while, hm?" Arthur slides the paper back and waits for me to write an explanation. I reach around it and snag his glass of whiskey. His eyes are large and round as I down the drink and wince, shaking my head in two jerks, breathing a calming breath from the burn. If it had a color I'm sure it would look like some sort of dark miasma.

_Upper respiratory infection when I was in the fifth grade. Didn't treat it properly in time. Hospitalized for a bit and when I got out I couldn't talk anymore. Bummer. I'm sure puberty would've given me an attractive voice._

Arthur snorts when he gets to the end of the note before getting up to refill his glass at the kitchen. "I picture a sort of Spongebob voice, but agree to disagree." He grins into his own glass when I laugh the bursts of air at his words. "Do you fancy whiskey? It's the cheap slop from Wal-Mart, but who can be picky these days?"

I rise from my chair with a new note in hand, passing it along the counter before rifling through his cabinets for a glass. I hear Arthur give a hum, his presence brushing against my back as he leans over me to fill the coffee cup I pull out.

"You have a point. I don't think your mum will notice in the state she's in."

I accidentally drink too much and miss Mattie getting home. When I stumble out into the hallway at eight, Arthur's hand lingering between my shoulder blades a little too long when he helps me balance, Matt's there sitting on the carpet with his knees propped up. He watches me with alarm and I plop down next to him. I sign to him if mom is still fucking the dentist, but I might've done it wrong because he just stares at me for a long time.

My jacket still smells like Arthur's apartment the next day when I wake up with an unpleasant throbbing in my skull.

* * *

There is a particular fault with my aversion to cigarettes. I get in a lot of fights at school with the kids that smoke. I know I shouldn't, but the smell burns my nose and makes me angry. It doesn't help that my dad died from lung cancer, to boot. Not to mention most of the guys who do it at my school are dicks. That's just extra incentive. Over time it morphed from their smoking around me to just them as people in general.

I can usually handle myself, but today there was four of them. It pisses me off even more that they started it, and it wasn't even over smoking. Not this time, at least.

"_Jones, if you have a problem then say it to my face. Oh, wait_."

"_He'd make a good ventriloquist dummy_."

"_Well, you have the dummy part right_."

"_Hey, hey, give him a chance to defend himself. Go on, Alfred. Speak up._"

I grit my teeth and kick a can in the gutter. Fucking jerks. They could've at least tag teamed. I finger a strand of hair, frowning at the charred tip. It isn't the first time they've flicked ash on me, won't be the last. I start to ascend up the stairs to my apartment when I catch Arthur getting his mail from his cubby. He looks up at me and gives me a once over when I come through the lobby door.

"What happened to you?"

In my frustration I start to sign furiously to him. He raises his hand and sighs. "I'm going to have to stop you right there, lad. I don't understand what you're saying." I take a breath or two before miming a gun to my temple, pulling the trigger. He opens his mouth in understanding, locking his cubby. "Ah. Rough day."

Rough doesn't begin to describe it. I fall in line with him as we walk up the steps together. When we're far enough from the lobby he takes out a carton of cigarettes and sticks one between his teeth. I balk at him.

"Belt up. You don't like it, don't look," Arthur says, sounding completely unsympathetic. He lights it and takes a long drag, slowly blowing out the smoke. I grimace and lean away from him. "Your brother isn't around. Don't be such a baby." Arthur reaches out and pinches my cheek. I slap his hand away.

He takes too much pleasure in my frustrations. I shove his shoulder and he bumps into the wall briefly, green eyes peering at me behind a layer of exhaustion. The circles under his eyes are darker today, making him resemble a raccoon. I wonder how hard he works to look like that. Maybe he has insomnia or does drugs.

I mouth _drugs_ at him. It takes a couple attempts before he gets it.

"Yes. Didn't I tell you? I'm addicted to heroin and cocaine. I can't pay my bills because I'm too busy staying up all night getting high." I shove him again. He straightens and rubs his hand over the small stubble around his chin. "What I'm more curious about are those bruises. Care to indulge my nosiness?"

I frown and run my hand over my hair, looking away. I don't really want to tell Arthur that I get picked on for being mute. That would make me sound like I'm some cripple worth pitying. I also don't want to tell him that it technically started with me getting down on the smokers at school who started hanging out where I usually do. That would seem really immature, and I don't want Arthur to see me as some loser kid.

"Alfred?"

I glance at him and huff. I start to sign at him with a crook of my mouth.

_I want to snatch that thing from your lips, you know that, right? You know that's probably why you look like an old man. Goodbye, youth. I knew thee well._

"I told you I can't read sign language," Arthur says, his voice pinched and impatient. I roll my eyes and smile, strolling forward and heading for my apartment. When I start to fish the keys from my bag, Arthur places his hand on my wrist, causing me to turn to him. He looks like he's struggling with something. I watch the ball of ash teeter and fall to the ground.

"I have corn."

I blink, pause, look at a spot behind his left shoulder, then back. Arthur pulls his hand away and purses his lips.

"For your eye. A bag of corn for your eye, mate. To help the swelling go down. I'm sure you're not comfortable like that," he explains. Now that he mentions it, I begin to feel the bruising pulse around my right eye in time with my heartbeat, along with the other aches and pains down my body.

I look at Arthur – really look at him then – understanding that I've only had a handful of conversations with him since he moved into the building about a month ago. I don't know him. I don't know what he thinks about or does on his free time or if he's too shady to even get involved with. God knows he smokes too much for me to really like him.

But then I see something genuine under the crusty exterior of his tiredness and most likely substance abuse. He looks twice my age even though now I know otherwise, and about a thousand miles away from me understanding. I nod and go into his apartment again.

He places corn and peas over my eye and my jaw. I note the empty liquor bottles by his sink and the ibuprofen on his table. Arthur sits quietly across from me, smoking his cigarette and staring off into space while I soothe my bruises and cuts with a dishtowel and frozen vegetables. This is weird, even I know that. His expression tells me he knows that, too.

Maybe that's why it's OK.

I reach across to pinch his cheek like he did mine in the hallway but he jerks back with a sneer, thinking that I'm going to take the stogie from his lips. Man, is he defensive. I mime for a shot of alcohol but he brings me a cup of tap water instead. I stare at the offending item on the tabletop and tilt my head at him.

"Yes, like you need a crutch yourself," Arthur says, leaning back in his chair and propping his shoe up on another. "You're too young to start developing a nasty tendency."

My lip curls at the idea of him looking down on me, treating me like he has to babysit me. I stand up and put the corn on the table, moving to the door. I hear Arthur speak up before I even make it five steps.

"Where are you going?"

I give him a wave over my shoulder, but he doesn't accept this as an acceptable answer. He grips the bend of my elbow and my steps halt. I look at him, clearly not amused.

"Don't tell me I've offended you already. You are exhausting sometimes," Arthur mutters, his eyes seeking out my own. I frown at him and try to pull my elbow away. He doesn't let go.

I slowly and deliberately mouth to him to get my point across.

_I'm not a kid._

He immediately gets it. I can tell with the way his shoulders sag. I quickly take his hand and draw the number eighteen against his palm, looking at him expectantly. Arthur looks up at me and I can tell that he does.

"Alright. You're not my younger brother or some tot I babysit. I get it."

I nod, my jaw set.

Arthur lets go of me and goes back to sit down at his table, an curious look resting on his face as he stares at his computer screen, doing a very bad job of ignoring me. "You're an adult. I'll keep that in mind."

For some reason the way he says that sends my hair standing up and a thrill down my spine.

* * *

"Are you friends with our neighbor now?"

I pause in reading the cereal box to regard my brother's random statement. Matt's watching me, swirling his cereal around in his own bowl. The sound of mom's hairdryer can be heard down the hall from her bedroom, and the news is on behind my brother. I lift my hand to sign lazily at him, taking another heaping spoonful into my mouth.

_I wouldn't say friends. We talk sometimes._

Matt considers this. "I see you coming out of his place on occasion, so I just wanted to ask . . . ," Mattie notices the humor behind my gaze and gives me a subtle smile. "Is he nice?"

_He's weird._

Mattie's eyebrows shoot up his forehead, appearing uncertain. "Weird?" I grin at him around my mouthful.

_Did you know he's barely older than us?_

Matt lays his spoon down on the table with a sputter. I laugh, the sound breathy and sending a piece of Captain Crunch onto the floor. I dab the dribble of milk down my chin. "You're joking. I thought – I thought he was in his thirties," he admits, seeming ashamed. I find that hilarious.

_Is that why you asked? Because you thought it was creepy to hang out with an old man?_

I know I hit a bullseye with my brother's torn expression. Believe me, that thought had crossed my mind before. Arthur may be in his twenties, but he sure acts like a middle-age person. I look up to see Matt clearing his breakfast from the table and stepping around me, silently washing his bowl out in the sink.

"You smell bad, Alfred."

I shoot him my best defensive expression but it fails when my cheeks are distended from cereal. I sign quickly to him, lifting my arm and giving it a good sniff.

_I smell fine! What are you talking about?_

Matt turns to look at me and his lips are pinched tight, almost like he doesn't want to say anything. "You just smell . . . like things you shouldn't. Don't let mom catch you, OK?" With that he heads back to our bedroom and shuts the door, probably changing for school. I stare after him and slowly give my sleeve another good sniff.

Things I shouldn't, huh? I frown and swallow my food, something squirming in my stomach uncomfortably. I lift my bowl to my lips and finish off the milk with a loud slurp, brushing this from my mind. I have math homework to finish, anyway.

* * *

I spend most afternoons at Arthur's place, watching him smoke and write term papers while I pretend to do homework and watch shitty daytime television. He doesn't seem surprised when I show up at his door after school, and eventually I don't really have to wait for him to respond when I knock before I'm twisting the handle and letting myself in.

He doesn't talk much, which bothers me. We _both_ can't be quiet. So I start writing more. His apartment is scattered with notes upon notes. After a month I go through four notebooks.

We talk about daily events, his relationship with his family, school, his crappy job, and smoking. It always comes back to smoking. Arthur only seems mildly irritated with the subject now, but he doesn't push it away. He usually flips it around on me when he asks about Matt's asthma or the fights with those pricks at school.

One day I randomly ask if he has a girlfriend. He just gives me a weird look for a long moment before leaning over suddenly, his lips pressing firmly to mine, tongue sweeping out. I don't even flinch. When he pulls back I hand him a piece of paper.

_You taste bad._

Arthur gives me that crooked smile of his and goes back to his computer. "Yes, well, so did your question."

I have a new reason to tell Arthur to quit his habit. Every kiss tastes awful, but I keep going back for seconds.

It doesn't really matter either way, because I still come home reeking of tobacco and mothballs. My mom doesn't really notice, or if she does, it's not enough to say anything. Matt gives me weird looks when I brush too close to him. He hates the smell.

But I'm somehow coming to enjoy it.

* * *

There is an incident at school after the winter break. I get into it with a guy who mistook my brother for me and started mouthing off. He ignored the fact that Mattie was actually defending himself vocally. When he shoved him into a bike rack and twisted his ankle, I socked him in the nose.

It ended with some teachers getting involved and I got suspended. When I went home I was having trouble breathing and couldn't sit still. My mom took me to the emergency room in the middle of the night when I woke up breathless and in a sweat.

I cracked a rib.

The look Arthur gives me when I tell him is acidic.

"The bloody twat breaks your rib and you are the one suspended? That's very nice. Brilliant," he growls, folding his arms and leaning against the dumpster. I shrug one shoulder, my bruised side still giving me trouble. I can't wait to get doped up on the pain meds when I go back inside.

"Why do you put up with this? It's a sort of hate crime, you know," he says, eyeing me seriously. I frown and shake my head, pointing to my chest. Arthur understands but the intensity doesn't dissipate from his brooding. "Come off it, Alfred. Just because you started it doesn't make it any less right."

I shake my head and look away.

It's not a hate crime. I don't want to get involved with something like that. Just because a small group gangs up on me for being silent doesn't mean I want to go about something with that angle. It makes me feel like there's something wrong with me. There's _nothing_ wrong with me.

I take out my notepad and write something down, showing him.

_It's cracked, not broken. It will be healed soon. Thanks for worrying!_

Arthur's eyes linger before he snorts and shuts them. "I'm not worrying," he lies.

Even his lies are nice.


End file.
